Tagline: …a fantastical ode to New York City’s glorious and horrifying past, as well as a warning to us all for its future.

Book Description:

In the year 2040, Hurricane Diana descends on New York City. Holly Williams, an architect and immigrant from England flees to her home country, staying with her ailing stepdad in Boston, England. Her mother, who has Alzheimer’s, is living in a nursing home nearby.

Holly's purpose in life, it seems, has been to design factories and offices for robotics companies while overseeing the demolition of historic New York buildings.

While seeking refuge from the hurricane that has destroyed New York City to the point that is barely recognizable, Holly begins to have strange hallucinations in which a mysterious stranger guides her through some of the city’s forgotten and dramatic past.

"Holly’s Hurricane, smartly set in the near future after a category 4 hurricane hits New York, will appeal to futurists and history buffs. An absorbing romantic novel that will make you think in new ways about the past, present and future of our most vulnerable cities as humankind battles climate change."—Laurie Gwen Shapiro, author of The Stowaway

"Here is New York City as we have never seen it, devastated by Hurricane Diana in 2040. Here too is our long overdue romantic heroine, Holly Williams, a sixty-year-old architect and immigrant struggling with ailing parents, unruly robotic aides, and an unexpected love interest twelve years her junior. Guided by a Virgil-like figure, Holly begins to realize at last her professional and personal potential as she embarks on a mission to preserve what's left of her adopted city. Prepare to be swept away by the sheer force of Holly's Hurricane—a fantastical ode to New York City's glorious and horrifying past, as well as a warning to us all for its future."—Molly Gaudry, author of We Take Me Apart

"Be prepared to travel through dimensions in time and space in Holly’s Hurricane. This is the kind of novel that haunts you, and you’ll find yourself thinking about it for days to come. You’ll become Holly, a brilliant architect, walking through the ruins of New York City in 2040 after a hurricane has devastated the city.Gorgeously written and incredibly wise, it’s a page-turner that will leave you on the edge of your seat, wondering if you’ve just looked through the window of our very vulnerable future. But as Marie Carter asks, 'How could something so pretty and intricate emerge from some devastation?' Carter shows us that all is not lost, as she carves the beauty out of the destruction."—Liz Scheid, author of The Shape of Blue

Excerpt:

One minute I am
sitting with my mum in the nursing home in Boston, England.

The next I was
transported to the Strid, the stream that lurks about a hundred yards from the
nursing home, with all the danger signs. It looks perfectly benign, but because
of its deadly combination of fast currents and underwater rocks, anyone who has
ever jumped in, or gone swimming in the Strid, has died. They put the first
danger signs up about fifty years after the third person had gone missing, but
still, about twenty years ago some troublemaker had dipped a toe in and was
grabbed by the current as if by a hungry monster, angry with the daredevil for
even tempting fate.

I was standing
by the Strid when I saw a man who looked faintly familiar, sporting pince-nez
glasses, a salt and pepper thick mustache, and wearing a bowler hat. He was
stylishly dressed and a little portly—in fact, I would have said he had a
similar profession to mine—like an architect, except he seemed to be from
another era. He took his hat off as a gesture, and I could see his hair was
parted down the middle. He beckoned me to come closer and gestured for me to
look into the water. The remarkable thing was, I didn’t feel unsafe. There was
something fatherly about the man, something I trusted. As I drew closer and
closer, I noticed a kind of whirlpool gaining more and more momentum in the
Strid. The noise of the water suddenly became deafening which was a shock to
me, as I couldn’t hear it earlier.

The man said
very simply, “Hello, Ms. Williams.”

And then,
without warning, to my horror, the man pushed me in. I was instantly suctioned
into a whirlpool but, to my amazement, I didn’t get wet. And, in spite of my
age, I felt no discomfort. In fact, I felt light, and all of my daily aches and
pains seemed to evaporate. I found myself in a vacuous tunnel-like interior,
and I was falling like Alice down the rabbit hole, but in slow motion, as
though I had developed wings. This was a relief. At my age, broken bones are
harder to repair.

I landed
weightlessly at the bottom of the steps of an imposing building that looked
like an ancient Roman temple. I could barely feel my body, and I noticed I
appeared to be see-through; my hands were opaque. The Architect was right
behind me, looking at me and smiling, very proper and gentlemanly. He began
climbing the steps of the building like an animated fairy sprite, turning and
beckoning me to follow. But I stood gaping with a goldfish mouth, entranced.
The structure was reminiscent of French palaces and Italian basilicas. The
gigantic granite and steel façade was supported by Roman columns. The Architect
bounced impatiently on the steps calling to me, “Ms. Williams,” and becoming
afraid I might lose my guide, I began climbing to the top, punctuating each
stair with a heavy footstep. I felt like a Roman goddess. Staring at the
grandiose clock above me, I noted it was four in the afternoon.

Entering the gargantuan
doors, I could hear crackly announcements being made over a PA system for what
seemed to be the names of places and times. Commuters in stylish heels clicked
past me.

“May I offer you
a tour?” the Architect asked, presenting his elbow, his manners at once
charming and archaic. He even wore elbow patches. “No one can see you,” he
said, as if reading my mind.

“Are we ghosts?”
I asked him, but he scoffed at my remark. Was this it for me? Had I died?
“Where are we?” I pressed.

“The past,” he
answered.

“What is this
place?” It felt at once familiar and foreign.

“Penn Station,
New York City, 1920 when it was in its heyday.”

I gasped. I had
read about Old Penn Station when I was studying for my Masters at university
many years ago. I hadn’t thought about it in such a long time.

We commenced
walking at a regal pace. “Penn Station, New York, New York, was born in 1910
and died in 1963,” the man began.

On the interior,
we were greeted by Italian-style shopping arcades with drugstores, clothing
boutiques, and elegant restaurants, separated by columns of creamy, smooth
travertine marble. There were two statues of important-looking men who were
dwarfing the travelers; one was carrying blueprints.

“Not a lot of
New Yorkers know or remember the original Penn Station,” the Architect said,
smiling wistfully. “It was quite glorious, as you can see.” He gestured with
his arm for me to drink in the splendor of Penn Station and I did. The walls
were 150 feet high, I calculated, as I craned my neck upwards towards its
magnificence and abundance of light.

“Let’s look at
the waiting rooms,” he said, guiding me away from the stores, where patrons
were chattering merrily.

In the waiting
room, people were milling around smoking cigars or hugging and kissing, their
faces changed from determined desire to softness as though they had finally
found what they were seeking. Semi-circular windows bathed travelers in
sunbeams. World maps crowded the walls.

About
the Author:

MARIE CARTER is a Scottish
writer, editor, writing teacher, and tour guide, based in Astoria, NY.

Her first book, The Trapeze
Diaries, based on her experiences of learning trapeze, was published by Hanging
Loose Press. Her novel Holly's Hurricane will be published in November 2018.

Marie has been a guest on NPR,
and has been featured in The New York Times, Queens Gazette, Huffington Post,
QNS, and many other media outlets.

Her work has been published in
Hanging Loose, The Brooklyn Rail, Spectacle, Turntablebluelight, and
Yogacitynyc, among others and in the anthologies The Best Creative Nonfiction
(W. W. Norton, 2007) and Voices of Multiple Sclerosis (LaChance, 2009). She has
also been awarded and attended a residency at the MacDowell Colony.

Fascinated by New York City's
macabre and little-known histories in her writing and life, she decided to
further her interest by becoming a licensed tour guide with Boroughs of the
Dead. She created and guides the "Haunting Histories and Legends of
Astoria" tour and also leads other tours in Greenwich Village, Lower
Manhattan, Brooklyn Heights, and Roosevelt Island. She also lectures on various
aspects of New York City's history on a regular basis at Q.E.D. in Astoria,
Queens.

Marie has provided editorial and
layout and design services to Hanging Loose Press, one of the oldest
independent publishers in the United States. She is the editor of Word Jig: New
Fiction from Scotland (Hanging Loose, 2003) and co-editor of Voices of the City
(Hanging Loose Press, 2004).

Marie graduated from Edinburgh
University with an MA in English Literature.

A lone soldier on night watch. A single bullet through the heart. Every light in Paris flickers—the city’s thundering silent scream.

When Commander Raimond Banitierre was assassinated, French Revolutionaries lost their gallant leader. After a villain’s offer of eternal life condemned him to slavery, Raimond rebelled again, driving his vampire comrades to freedom.

Raimond escapes to Savannah, Georgia where his dream of becoming a doctor comes true. During his trial-by-fire residency on the Civil War’s battlefields, he discovers his true calling—the power to preserve memories and dignity in the face of death. His chance meeting with a beguiling mortal nurse ignites passionate nights and a long overdue crack in the door to paradise.

Vicious flames and an unholy miscalculation deliver Raimond back to the depths of hell. Being arrested for treason makes him wish for death and the arrival of Prince Draven Norman appears to be the final nail in Raimond’s coffin.

Will the prince’s eccentric judgement grant Raimond a true reprieve? Is Draven’s invitation to join New Orleans mystical royalty an extension of his own treachery, or the next step in Raimond’s miraculous journey?

Has the legendary Crescent City found a spirit noble enough to protect her future?

In a derelict
neighborhood on the fringe of Paris, one burning red eye glowed through the
crumbling foundation of a formerly grand hotel. While family and friends still
struggled to put the Revolution’s gory ugliness behind them, their every move
was scrutinized by a trapped predator.

Raimond kept
watch, as he had done for decades, until his eye smoldered from distant
sunlight. Switch eyes. A smile drifted across his face while children scurried
behind their parents, shopkeepers threw open their doors and the light of hope
shone on every street except one. The worn and rutted surface of Rue Le Cross
remained cloaked in darkness.

Footsteps echoed
off the cobblestones outside Raimond’s portal and he strained to see the
trespassers. He flinched at the sight of glowing torches, retreating again into
his underground gloom.

A woman barked
orders. “Tell those youngsters to stay behind the barricade.”

“Go to school,
you little fools!” a man called out. “This is no place for kids…or anyone.”

“What are you so
afraid of husband?”

Raimond stepped
forward to hear the man’s answer. I should hope they’re scared.

“I’m not the
only one who hears the awful noises in this passage after dark and it’s always
night on this bloody street.”

“Can we just
light these lamps and get out of here?” The woman’s eyes darted around. “The
mayor paid both of us a fortune.”

Here they go
again. The gas lanterns blazed to life and Raimond drummed his fingers on the
wall.

“They’re
burning,” the woman hissed. “But why are they flickering?”

The flames
shivered and gasped, as if being blown out by invisible lips. Raimond shook his
head.

“This alley is
cursed. Every lock is broken. Nothing opens.” The man rattled handles and
knobs. He froze at the shuttered hotel’s rusty door. “Do you hear that?”

Raimond
rhythmically smashed a rock on the iron bars of his prison.

“We didn’t get
paid enough for this wife.”

A menacing growl
ricocheted off the walls and the couple dropped their torches, slammed into
each other and scrambled toward the main street.

Don’t come back.
Raimond let the rock slip from his grasp and slumped against the dusty wall.
Those doors are jammed shut for a reason.

As the final,
auburn embers of sunlight faded behind the craggy roofline, the underworld
groaned to life. Raimond turned around to the absolute black of the catacombs
and the squeal of rodents that drowned out hungry cries. He kicked a rat across
the cell and his stomach twisted at the whimpers of miserable children sleeping
in the cold. They were all victims of a monster that the mortal world above
didn’t believe existed. He didn’t have the heart to tell the little ones they
were vampires, too. He sighed. None of us will ever be warm again.

Raimond punched
walls he’d been beating on for years. A few remaining slivers of stone broke
free and he slid to the floor, clawing at his eyes.

Don’t fall apart
now, soldier. This moment has been years in the making.

As an officer,
he’d been expected to sacrifice his life.

Until a maniac
stole my soul.

That crime was
nothing compared to what the innocents who lived beneath the street with him
had endured.

Tonight, it all
changes.

In a flash
Raimond slammed into iron bars that tore the skin from his forehead. He drew a
breath of putrid air.

The villains
beat me and I plotted.

He looked at the
blackened skin of his hands.

They burned me,
and I schemed.

His escape from
the torture was a dive into the darkest corners of his mind, and each time he
let himself dream, the hallucinations became bloodier and deadlier.

Never mind
revenge; I want absolute victory.

His eyes
wandered across the dungeon full of unwilling vampires, landing first on a
fellow soldier.

Such an odd
story, a Scot fighting alongside the French.

Two younger lads
slept next to the burly man, both clinging to the ends of a tattered blanket.
Nuns, farmers and even patients from the local infirmary had been ripped from
their beds and turned into slaves by a madman. In the middle, a young nurse
huddled with the frailest children. Her voice, touch and passion to heal had
never faltered, despite the hellish conditions.

It
is a slime-covered fungus known for its pinkish red tentacles and
pungent odor. It is indigenous to Australia but has spread to North
America. Its Latin name is Clathrus
Archeri,
also known as Octopus Stinkhorn. Most people call it The Devil’s
Fingers . . .

I
DON’T KNOW BUT IT’S GROWING ON YOUR NECK.

Deep
in the woods of Washington, botanist Autumn Winters stumbles onto a
field of the luridly colored fungi. Two of her fellow campers make
the mistake of touching it. Now it’s growing on them. Fleshy
gelatinous pods. Sprouting from their skin. Feeding on their blood .
. .

AND
IT’S STILL GROWING.

Autumn
watches in horror as her friends are transformed into
monstrosities—grotesque, human-fungal hybrids as contagious and
deadly as any virus. Autumn knows she must destroy these mutations
before they return to civilization. But if there’s one thing that
spreads faster than fear, it’s The Devil’s Fingers . . .

Hunter
Shea is the product of a misspent childhood watching scary
movies, reading forbidden books and wishing Bigfoot would walk past
his house. He’s the author of over 17 books, including The
Jersey Devil (Pinnacle 2016)), Tortures of the
Damned (Pinnacle 2015), and We Are Always
Watching (Sinister Grin). Hunter’s novels can even be found on
display at the International Cryptozoology Museum. The Montauk
Monster (Pinnacle 2014) was named one of the best reads of the
summer by Publishers Weekly. He was selected to be part of the
launch of Samhain Publishing’s new horror line in 2011 alongside
legendary author Ramsey Campbell. His video podcast, Monster
Men, is one of the most watched horror podcasts in the world. Living
with his crazy and supportive family and two cats, he’s happy to be
close enough to New York City to see the skyline without having to
pay New York rent.

After imposing a controversial
quarantine, Adelstadt Mayoress Mirabel Fairfax finds herself in the crosshairs
with vengeful highwaymen. When they target her family and the vital shipments
her village desperately needs, she turns to witchcraft to restore order
herself. But something is wrong: her magic becomes unreliable, and monstrous
images torment her mind's eye.

When gruesome murders terrorize
Adelstadt, she suspects the highwaymen have turned to the occult, allying with
a demonic entity. A Goetia. The hallucinations become all-too-real, and Mirabel
must rely on her cunning, wrath, and what few friends she has left if she hopes
to rescue her valley, her beloved, and her mind.

Felix Fairfax does the best he
can as the husband of a controversial mayoress witch, but his life is once
again turned into a fight for survival when he’s kidnapped by the highwaymen.
They force him to help investigate his wife’s hidden lair, where they become
trapped with creatures of unspeakable horror. Whatever Mirabel had locked away
hunts indiscriminately—it hunts him—and if it gets out, plagues and highwaymen
won’t be Adelstadt’s problems any longer.

Mirabel’s boots
clicked down a stone, spiral stairway, blowing past the half-melted candles
lining the steps. The candles provided the only light, at times leaving her to
fumble for footing on the disrepair of the steps. The descent into darkness
went on longer than she’d ever recalled experiencing before. What a time for
metaphysical nonsense. An echo of raspy, hollow screams chased her,
reverberating within the stairwell, challenging her to keep up speed.

She stumbled off
the final steps, at last on the ground floor, and clawed her wild, deep red
hair from her face. Archaic, religious candle racks illuminated the chamber.
Nothing had changed down here. At least, not yet.

She sped past
rows of dilapidated tables and pews, reached a laboratory-style workbench, and
threw her arms against a stack of journals, scattering the research. Upon
snaring a specific handful of pages, she sprinted for the tower entrance.

A bony tusk
punched through a nearby wall, knocking candles from their altar. They struck
silver offering plates on the floor, crashing like cymbals. Mirabel leaped
back, one hand clutching her research against her body, the other gripping the
handle of her rapier.

Black, viscous
slime poured from the hole around the horn, crept over the altar, and dripped
onto the floor. Small, misshapen hands sprouted from the goop like blooming
black-fingered flowers, grasping at the stone tiles. A reek like sweet, rotting
fruit flooded the air.

She closed her
gaping mouth, turned away, and continued running down the hall. Her
burned-orange cape fluttered and whipped, a nuisance, rescinding its value.

The entire tower
quaked, followed by more disembodied shrieking. A spiny, gray tentacle as thick
as a branch smashed through the wall ahead in a deafening boom, lashing and
twisting like an eel out of water. She drew her rapier and severed the tip with
the sharpened, distal edge of her weapon. The piece of otherworldly flesh fell
away, but several more tentacles punched through imperfections in the
surrounding walls, blocking her path. Each unique arm contorted at varied
rates, some more aggressive than others.

Still holding
her sword, she extended her arm and channeled magic through it with a rush of
heat. Upon releasing her focus, the heat fled her body and flames burst in front
of her, engulfing the tentacles and transforming them into crackling ash.

Vertigo crashed
over her in waves as penalty for her sudden, great expenditure of soul energy.
With inhuman moans drifting on the air, she shook off her fatigue and proceeded
to the iron double doors ahead, ramming her shoulder against them. They opened
a crack, blasting her face with freezing air from outside.

She pushed
against the door, and it ground open, scraping through a layer of fresh snow.
She slipped her thin frame through, dropped her research and rapier, and shoved
the door closed.

“Mayoress?”

She spun and
straightened her posture. “Under no circumstances is anyone to approach the
tower.”

Two guardsmen
clad in vermillion red, double-breasted uniforms stood at the base of the tower
steps, shoulders dusted with snow. They possessed several weapons: muskets with
bayonets, sabers, and crossbow pistols. All useless.

“Aye,” said the
leading guard. “We thought we heard some rumbling from our post. Another
quake?”

She knelt, sheathing
her rapier and collecting her papers. And then she saw the ooze. Not much, but
strands of it slithered under the door. She backed away and marched down the
steps.

“Evacuate.”

“Excuse me,
Mayoress?”

She stopped
between the guards and faced the shift lead. “Evacuate. It’s a simple concept.
Do it now.”

“Evacuate what?
Ironsnow?”

“Yes, the entire
hamlet. Get everyone to Adelstadt at once.” She looked past him at dozens of
wood-framed homes at the base of the tower’s hill, billowing smoke from their
chimneys. “No one goes near the tower. Get everyone out now.”

The other guard
spoke. “But why? Minor quakes happen all the time. My family lives here.”

The three
marched down the hill. Mirabel said nothing.

“Mayoress?”

“Miasma. I’ve
discovered the tower is the source of plague-infested miasma. Likely the cause
of other outbreaks around Adelstadt. Deadly strains. None can reside here any
longer. I’m sorry.”

“Tordin’s
mercy,” said the guard. “I’ll have my family pack right away.”

“Nay. Full
evacuation. Immediately. Have the citizens take only what they can carry on
their way out.”

“It’s that
urgent?”

“I am the
Mayoress and a syndicate-certified disease specialist. You think I give this
order lightly?”

“Of course not,
Mayoress Fairfax,” said the lead guard. “We’ll get everyone out within the
hour.”

“Faster if you
are able. Much faster.”

About
the Author:

Sam Poling has been writing fantasy
and science fiction for the thrill of it his entire life, from short stories to
screenplays. His love for each of the subgenres led to dedication to writing
genre-skirting fiction with all the elements that make up the human condition.
He holds a strong enthusiasm for medical studies and currently works as a
medical assistant in a large clinic while taking classing for nursing. He also
serves on a health and safety committee, including disaster preparedness and infection
control. His interest in epidemiology and medical science tends to spill over into
his writing endeavors.

Christmas
is a time of celebration as well as family and friends. Join these
six award winning and best selling Regency authors as they share with
you the season for romance

Married
by Christmas by Jenna Jaxon

After
two miserable Seasons, Miss Marianne Covington is determined not to
have a third and enlists the help of longtime friend William Stanley
to assist her. Will wagers he can find her a husband before
Christmas. But when none of the suitors suit, he is ready to do
something drastic for the woman who’s become more than just a
friend.

The
Christmas Wager by Angelina
Jameson

Lord
Chastain, darling of the gossip sheets, has seven days to turn a
lady’s head. Lady Iris, aware of the wager, finds the earl hard to
resist. As the pair spend the holidays together, Chastain finds his
own head turned and Iris discovers you can’t believe everything you
read.

His
Yuletide Bride by Nadine Millard

Daniel,
Duke of Darthford, had pined for Sarah Starling since her
disappearance three years ago. When Daniel and Sarah unexpectedly
cross paths again, it’s no surprise that sparks fly once more.
Could this Christmas bring two hearts back together, again? And can
love truly conquer all?

Twelve
Gifts by Christmas by Tabetha
Waite

When
Lady Philomena Wallace, the Countess of Lipscomb, receives a gift
from a secret admirer, she imagines it’s a lark. It isn’t until a
stranger from her past abruptly returns that she has to make a choice
between a mysterious suitor - and a second chance at love.

Hell
Hath Frozen Over by Annabelle Anders

The
Duchess of Prescott, now a widow, fears she’s experienced all life
has to offer. Thomas Findlay, a wealthy industrialist, knows she has
not. Can he convince her she has love and passion in her future? And
if he does, cans she convince herself to embrace it?

Boughs
of Folly by Anna Bradley

He's
a scandalous rake who needs a respectable wife. She's a notorious
actress who was once a lady. Will they give in to the passion between
them, or will it take a Christmas miracle to bring them together?

Jenna
Jaxon
is a multi-published author of historical and contemporary romance.
She has just finished her fifth full length novel, To Woo A Wicked
Widow, set in Regency England and the first book in her five part
series, The Widow's Club.

Jenna
has been reading and writing historical romance since she was a
teenager. A romantic herself, she has always loved a dark side to the
genre, a twist, suspense, a surprise. She tries to incorporate all of
these elements into her own stories. She lives in Virginia with her
family and a small menagerie of pets. When not reading or writing,
she indulges her passion for the theatre, working with local theatres
as a director. She often feels she is directing her characters on
their own private stage.

She
has equated her writing to an addiction to chocolate because once she
starts she just can't stop.

Born
in Las Vegas, NV, I joined the air force to see the world. An
assignment to England kindled my love of the Regency era and prompted
my dream to publish the stories in my head. I love to write with a
steady supply of coffee nearby and one of my three cats on my lap. I
currently live in Alaska with my husband and two teenage boys and
wish I had the attention span to be a better cook.

Tabetha
Waite is the multi-award winning author of the Ways of Love
Series. Her debut novel, "Why the Earl is After the Girl,"
was published in July of 2016 and won the 2017 Best Indie Book Award
in Romance and the 2018 Second Place Feathered Quill Book Award in
Romance. She is a certified PAN member of the RWA. When she's not
writing, Tabetha is reading, as true bookworms do, or checking out
any antique mall she comes across. During the school year she works
as a lunch attendant at the local community college. She is a small
town, Missouri girl, born and bred, and continues to make her home in
the Midwest with her husband and two wonderful daughters.

You can
find her on most any social media site, and she encourages any fans
of her work to join her mailing list for updates.

Married
to the same man for over 25 years, I am a mother to three children
and two Miniature Wiener dog.

After owning a business and
experiencing considerable success, my husband and I got caught in the
financial crisis and lost everything; our business, our home, even
our car.

At this point, I put my B.A. in Poly Sci to use and took
work as a waitress and bartender.

Unwilling to give up on a
professional life, I simultaneously went back to college and obtained
a degree in Energy Management.

And then the energy market
dropped off.

And then my dog died.

I can only be
grateful for this series of unfortunate events, for, with nothing to
lose and completely demoralized, I sat down and began to write the
romance novels which had until then, existed only my imagination.

Anna
Bradley is an RT Reviewer's Choice award-winning author of
Regency Historical Romances. Anna came by her love of the regency-era
the usual way--via a deep, abiding love for Jane Austen, and an
appreciation for gentlemen in breeches and polished Hessians.

Anna's
next book, MORE OR LESS A TEMPTRESS, releases on November 13, 2018.
Anna lives with her husband and two children in Portland, OR, where
people are delightfully weird and love to read.

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